My mother is a perfectionist when it comes to her work. She will edit a poem in her head for days before writing it down and once written it is never altered, it doesn’t have to be all the editing has been done. She is like that with everything she does, the depth of thought that goes into her actions so that the actions are fluid – and her house is always spotless. Me I am hopeless, my desk alone shows my state of mind and the pile of papers has everything I need for my work . . . somewhere.
Human beings strive to make pretty patterns out of the world but there is a huge principle of imperfection in nature so much so that nature has perfected imperfection. The variety of lumps and bumps makes for different inhabitable regions; the lack of perfect balance in physiognomy makes for beauty, shades of clarity in the atmosphere (greatly admired by painters) add character; dis-chord in music has immense value.
There is a certain amount of chaos in imperfection, a certain amount of inbuilt struggle, because, after all, patterns are easier to understand when they cohere. But we live in all those cracks created by imperfection and it make sense to accept them and to stop seeking perfection in our societies. Straight roads are unnatural, city blocks are easy to navigate and ultimately depressing, endless sand might seem like a perfect beach but it is actually a desert by the sea.
Neither perfection nor imperfection should rule the other. Both are vital.